After college my best friend Graham and I moved to Crested Butte, Colorado. We made the 1800-mile road trip together, leaving from her childhood home in Richmond, VA. My car was a boxy four door Volvo, hers a Subaru – both solid choices for traversing the country. It was 1992 and cellphones were not yet a part of everyday life. I knew one person who owned a cell phone, or “car phone,” as we called it, and that was my dad. It was a giant shoebox-sized thing that you carried with a shoulder strap, like a war correspondent, and kept in your car for emergencies. Don Cate was a techie car-guy who took safety preparedness to the extreme, especially for road trips. As our cross-country trek approached, he loaded us up with AAA TripTik’s, emergency road flares, and since he couldn’t give us both giant car phones, two CB radios so Graham and I could communicate throughout the drive. While we’d laughed and made plenty of “10-4 good buddy!” jokes, those CBs ended up being pretty great. The 3-day trip was uneventful with one exception. We were driving through Indiana and chatting, as two college-aged girls with CB radios will do, about where to stop for lunch. We were interrupted by a deep voice, “What are two good lookin’ girls like you doin’ in a place like Evansville, Indiana?” We will never know if someone actually had eyes on us or just heard two females spelling out exit numbers for all potential murderers to hear. Nonetheless, three days later we made it to our new home in the mountains, no doubt using a land line phone to make the requisite safe-arrival call to our parents.

The following year when I was moving back East, I planned to drive solo. Instead, my dad bought a one-way plane ticket to Colorado so he could travel with me – classic Don Cate move. 23-year-old Tracy protested, but today 53-year-old Tracy feels lucky that he had the means and willingness to do so. It was October 1993. I packed my life back up into my boxy Volvo and said goodbye to my friends. Dad would fly into Pueblo, where we’d start our journey. We planned to go south first, visiting New Mexico before heading east. What I couldn’t know about this trip at the time was that we were making a memory that years later I would recall with tremendous nostalgia and gratitude.  

 Leaving Pueblo before dawn, it was still early when we pulled into downtown Santa Fe. Looking for breakfast, we stumbled into a restaurant on a narrow cobblestone street with a blue door. The building was worn and charming with high ceilings. The homemade English muffins and fresh squeezed orange juice were unlike anything I’d had before. For the past thirty years any time someone mentions Santa Fe, I say, “I had the best breakfast of my life there!” (it’s a real conversation starter). After eating we wandered into a town square where local artists were selling their silver and turquoise jewelry. These artists sat in a line under a covered walkway the length of a city block with beautiful handmade pieces laid out on blankets for shoppers to peruse. I picked out a silver ring with a starry design on the band and my dad bought it for me. I remember him paying the quiet, Native American artist. It was an insignificant travel moment – but I’ve worn that silver ring almost every day for the past thirty years. Not out of sentimentality for the trip or my dad, but because I love it. It is unique with designs on the inside of the band as well as the outside. Any compliment I’ve received always has me pulling it off my finger to show the inside. While I don’t keep up with all of the origin stories of the jewelry I’ve accumulated over the years, there are a few that are special. This ring will always be the one I got in Santa Fe with my dad.

In August of 2023, I returned to Santa Fe for a writing workshop. As I made plans, I thought a lot about the 1993 trip. So many details had faded – Where did we stay? What was the name of the restaurant? Was the street actually cobblestone? Am I remembering the marketplace correctly?

I easily found the jewelry market in the Santa Fe Plaza the first Sunday I was in town. I was overcome with how little had changed compared to my memories. Here it was, a long row of Native American artists seated behind blankets displaying their work. I learned that this location, the Palace of the Governors, is part of the New Mexico History Museum and has protected Native American artists selling their handmade artwork since 1979. The Artisans Portal Program ensures that only Native Americans sell their goods here. While I knew it was a long shot, it occurred to me that I might be able to find the 1993 artist. As I took it all in, walking down the line, I kept an eye out for any rings with designs on the inside. I spoke to a woman who had been selling her jewelry there since the 90’s. Hopeful, I showed her my ring. The design inside the band wasn’t the clue I’d hoped it would be. She did, however, point out that initials and a year were inscribed in small print alongside the designs. I was stunned. After so many years, I’d looked right past the small “AP sterling 93.” I thanked her, bought a pair of her earrings, and returned to my search. I retraced my steps studying business cards and jewelry signatures before continuing down the line. No “AP” or rings with designs inside the band to be found.

My focus for the next few days was on the workshop, leaving little time to explore the city. I researched restaurants that had been around since the 90’s: nobody was known for homemade English muffins and fresh squeezed orange juice. I accepted that the chances of a restaurant surviving thirty years plus a pandemic were slim. I searched online for a local craftsman who made rings with designs on the inside, with no success. Pursuing these recessed details felt therapeutic after losing my dad two years earlier. The workshop ended midday Friday. My flight was Saturday afternoon giving me one more day in town. I made dinner plans with a new friend from the class. Without a Friday night reservation, we were prepared to go to any old place when she suggested Café Pasqual’s. She’d been there earlier in the week and raved about it. We lucked into a 7:30 reservation thanks to a last-minute cancellation. When we stepped in the door, I knew it was the place I’d had breakfast with dad. It wasn’t down an alley and the street was brick instead of cobblestone, but the blue door and the high ceilings were the same. Known for making everything from scratch, Café Pasqual’s is a landmark. If you know Santa Fe, calling it a victory to find the Plaza with the jewelry and Café Pasqual’s (which by the way are like 50 feet from each other) is like saying, “I went to NYC and found the statue of liberty and Times Square, can you believe my skills?” But rediscovering them both felt like an accomplishment, a link to that 1993 trip. It was a connection to a time when having a dad was a casual, constant reality. When traveling across the country with him was easy to take for granted because it was impossible to imagine anything different.

 I fell asleep that last night still trying to pull up details from three decades earlier, but so grateful that I’d filled in some of the blanks. The next morning, I loaded up my rental car and headed to the Plaza one more time before driving to the airport in Albuquerque. The Saturday buzz of the market was noticeably different from the cleaned-out, Sunday afternoon vibe of the previous weekend. I was looking for gifts while keeping an eye out for AP. I slowly moved down the line, weaving through fellow shoppers, checking every blanket. Running out of time, I stopped in front of a middle-aged guy with a sparse selection. Kneeling, I picked up a bracelet. Inside there was an inscription, “AP 2023.” I practically yelled, “YOU’RE AP!? I’VE BEEN LOOKING FOR YOU.” Caught off guard by my emotions (he probably felt the same), I held out my hand. “I bought this from you in 1993, over there,” pointing to the end of the line. He smiled, “That does look like my work. I was a lot younger in 1993.” I laughed, “Me too,” guessing we’re similar in age. I told him about my dad, the two trips, and how much I’d enjoyed the ring. His name is Allen Bruce Paquin. He’s affiliated with the Walatowa (Jemez Pueblo), Zuni, Laguna, and Acoma tribes and has been selling jewelry there since the 90’s. He was very gracious when I asked to take a photo with him. I bought two silver bracelets with beautiful designs on the inside and out, signed “AP 2023” – one for me, and one for my sister. The whole transaction took less than 10 minutes, just like before. This time, the significance of the moment was not lost on me. I smile every time I wear my new AP bracelet. It feels like another gift from dad.